Her Gift is Life
by The Silver Princess
Summary: *Complete* Buffy Summers died to save her sister and the world. That girl is gone, but her soul lives on as do her memories. This is the tale of her path to recover her life.
1. The Hospital

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, the WB, and all those other brilliant people who aren't me (dra

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, the WB, and all those other brilliant people who aren't me (drat it all). Again, none of these characters belong to me. However, the storyline and the few new characters are mine.** 

Author's Notes: I cannot believe the finale to season five. I was bawling by the time it was over, and I could have strangled whoever thought of ending it that way. When I went online, I was upset to find a lack of hopeful fanfics out there. So I decided to write a fanfic that gave our favorite show a different ending, one that's not just grieving but not a blanket Buffy resurrected plot. Please send some feedback or review! I love getting your comments, and I will consider any suggestions that you have. After all, I am writing this for you, and I do want you to like it. Enjoy reading! 

Rating: PG

******************* 

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, not touched, butare felt in the heart."

~ Helen Keller ~

Her Gift is Life

by: The Silver Princess

She woke up confused and bleary. Her head hurt as though cotton had been stuffed inside her skull instead of a brain. Her muscles hurt like planks of wood that had been forced to bend. Her stomach hurt as though her organs had been encased in lead. In short, everything hurt like hell. She blinked several times, that small action nearly too much. She waited impatiently for her body to accustom itself to the waking world and tried to comprehend her situation. Everything was a blur, a dizzying montage of disjointed images. There were faces without names, names without people. Everything conflicted, and nothing made sense in the bewildering stream of images.

"Aaargh!" she growled finally, squeezing her eyes shut.

She slowly counted to ten, breathing deeply and slowly, and then she opened her eyes more calmly. Okay, start with the little things. At least, she was feeling more fit. Now, where exactly was she? A hospital. Okay, so, what was she doing there? Lying in a bed in an unbecomingly formless hospital green gown. In a hospital? she wondered. She frowned as she glanced at herself. Why were her wrists bandaged? And why was she hooked up to several monitors and an IV?

She concentrated but no answers emerged from the bewildering torrent of memories. Fine. She didn't want to get frustrated again so she'd move on to something else.

First name. Uh, um. Elizabeth! That was it. Elizabeth. Still, it didn't seem quite right. Did she have a nickname or something?

She shrugged, ignoring that for now. Last name. Summerwind. Yes, that sounded familiar.

Pleased with her progress but exhausted by her expended energy, she lay back and let herself slip into sleep again.

When she woke again, things seemed much clearer. Her mind was still hazy, but her memories were mostly in order again. Elizabeth Summerwinds. In her second year of college. Orphaned last year. Incredibly heartbroken. Depressed even.

The nurse came in, cutting her train of thought short.

"And how are you doing?" the woman said in that annoying voice meant for five-year-olds. Magda, her nametag read in embossed black. Magda smiled at Elizabeth in what she apparently thought was comforting, but her plain, reddened face was only written with condescension.

Elizabeth winced when she tried to speak and only a croak emerged. Trying again, she asked, "What am I doing here?" She licked her lips nervously. "What happened?"

"Hmm," Magda murmured disapprovingly. "You don't remember."

Elizabeth shook her head worriedly.

"Silly child. You never stop to think, do you?"

"What?" she asked in confusion.

"You tried to kill yourself, girl," Magda explained frowningly.

Elizabeth gaped as she settled back in her pillow. Suicide? She couldn't have…but she had. She gasped as strange memories overtook her. The depression, the anger, the hopelessness, and then the final moment when razors sliced into her wrists.

Suicide. Why did that feel so strange in her soul? She would never, but contradictorily she did.

She looked down at her hands. They were the same. She peered up at the tiny mirror. Yes, that was her. Same silk-black hair jetting to her shoulders. Same chestnut eyes and same high cheekbones. Every detail was hers. That was her face, the Native American face she had worn so proudly her entire life. This was her.

Then why did she feel so different? Why did her thoughts not flow logically with her memories? She couldn't imagine acting as she had, but again—she had. Why?

She shook her head in annoyance. "I can't think in here," she whispered to herself, her voice seeming to echo inside her skull. The room was suffocating. The white walls pressed against her, and the air was heavy in her lungs. She wrinkled her forehead suddenly. No, it wasn't the room, not even the hospital. It was this city. She couldn't stay here. She had to get out of here. Had to go somewhere else, had to be somewhere.

But where?

Sunnydale.

The name, the place, came to her like a bullet shot. She gasped sharply, falling back to her pillow as memories surged for a brief instant and then faded. She smiled thoughtfully. Yes, Sunnydale was the place. She had to be in Sunnydale.

*****

Thanks to her sudden determination and surprising negotiating skills, Elizabeth was now on a bus to Sunnydale. She had been transferred to Sunnydale U in record time, thanks to her so-called desire to "recover" in a new place. True, she had to attend psychiatric appointments regularly, but she'd be out of "therapy" in no time. She didn't know why, but she felt like an entirely different person. She'd even gone to the gym yesterday and worked out, delighting in her instinctive feel for the punching bag and her unusual sensation of strength and ability.

She grinned cheerfully as she glanced down at the book of baby names she had bought earlier. The name "Elizabeth" still didn't feel quite right to her. Besides, she definitely wanted something fresh to start her new Sunnydale life with.

She skimmed through the innumerable variations of Elizabeth, wrinkling her nose. None of these were right for her. Bess, Elissa, Ilse, Libby, Liz. None of them fit.

"Aha!" she yelped suddenly. She blushed as the others passengers turned to look at her strangely. Still, the grin would not stay hidden for long. It was perfect. Buffy. She would be Buffy.

Happily, she—Buffy, she reminded herself—tucked the book away in her backpack and glanced out the window, anxious for her new home to roll into view.

*****

Buffy wandered through town. Her fingers trailed over shop windows, her eyes reflected the rising moon. So familiar. She knew this place. God, why did she know this place?

A strange, quivery emotion was welling up inside her like helium filling a balloon. Something hopeful, wistful. Something that just sighed to her, "Right. This is right."

Her feet moved on their own accord as she let her mind wander thoughtfully. The wind felt so blissfully cool on her skin, and the feeling of movement was so invigorating in her limbs.

She opened her eyes with a start, not having realized she had closed them. She swallowed dryly. She was at a cemetery.

She walked in, her hands knowing the shape of the gate with the ease of long familiarity. The grass was mint-green and barely sprinkled with dew. Night hung over the trees like a black cloak enfolding all the tombstones that loomed in the gloom.

Her ears caught a sound, and she instinctively headed towards it.

Weeping, sniffling, and a scraping of dirt in a shovel. God, she'd wandered into a funeral.

She paused, nearly turning to leave, but something drew her forward. She could almost see the tug, like an iridescent string, steadily towing her onward towards the group of mourners.

The black of their clothes nearly blended into the shadows, and Buffy blinked as she realized just how many people were there. Huge masses of teenagers and adults alike. It was as though the whole town had chosen to attend this unknown person's burial. She blinked; perhaps they had; the town had seemed somewhat empty.

She walked forward, her feet barely rustling on the lush grass, and the out-of-place feeling evaporated like slumber from a bed. She belonged here every bit as much as anyone else did.

Buffy's attention was drawn like a magnet to a closely-knit group of mourners directly across from her and standing closest to the rapidly-filling grave. Their tears and heartrending grief marked them as the closest to the dead person.

There was a red-headed girl sobbing into the arms of a blond girl. There was a dark-haired boy silently holding a girl with light brown hair. A man who stood rigidly with slow tears coursing down his cheeks as though he were terrified to let his grief free for fear that it would shatter him. A cocky teenager with peroxide blond spikes for hair and a face so grief-stricken that it seemed incongruous. But mostly, her attention was focused on a younger girl, about fifteen years old. Her long auburn hair tousled in a light breeze, she stood slightly apart, holding herself tightly for comfort andshuddering with hot, painful tears. The grief and pain inside this group was so poignant that Buffy could nearly touch it, see it like a thorny, sharp splinter of glass, each facet gleaming and sharpening.

Ripping her eyes away from the brokenhearted girl, Buffy glanced at the tombstone and gasped in shock. Buffy Anne Summers. Her heart thudded against her ribcage and sounded dully in her ears. Buffy Summers. Buffy Summerwinds.

Her gasp vibrated unusually loud through the graveyard and the mourners looked up at her. Buffy opened her mouth to apologize when she locked eyes with the fifteen-year-old.

"Dawn," she said to the crying girl. She pressed her hand to the girl's cheek, wishing she didn't have to make this choice. "The hardest thing in this world is to live."

Buffy stumbled back a step as her lips formed the name "Dawn." Tears shone in her eyes. She turned and fled through the graveyard, not stopping until she was well away from those people and that grave.

She was Buffy. She was! Somehow, she was. But, then, did she really know who Buffy was?

****TBC****


	2. The Scoobies

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, the WB, and all those other brilliant people who aren't me (dra

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, the WB, and all those other brilliant people who aren't me (drat it all). Again, none of these characters belong to me.** 

Author's Notes: Here's the next chapter. I hope you all like it. Please send some feedback or review! I love getting your comments, and I will consider any suggestions that you have. After all, I am writing this for you, and I do want you to like it. Enjoy reading and long live Buffy, the Vampire Slayer!

Rating: PG

******************* 

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, not touched, butare felt in the heart."

~ Helen Keller ~

Her Gift is Life

by: The Silver Princess

The next night, Buffy Summerwinds returned to this other Buffy Summers's grave. The sky above was thick with stars like misty white clouds, and the moon shone large and silver, its ethereal light pouring around the gravestones like thick syrup. The air was still and quiet without the slightest stir of a breeze.

Buffy's shoes whispered against the grass; in the silence of the cemetery, it was a creepy sound as though the buried dead sighed faintly below the grass and dirt.

She paused before the other's headstone, several feet away so that she wouldn't trample on the freshly packed dirt and the newly laid sod, not to mention the body underneath.

Her fingers flexed instinctively as though she expected herself to be holding something. She frowned, her dark eyes faraway. A staff? No, that wasn't it. Something shorter…and sharper. Some sort of stick? She nibbled her lip as she gazed at her hand, scrutinizing the lines of her palm and the shape of fingers. The memory was close, niggling at the front of her mind. A stake! That was it! She grinned happily at the recovered memory. She usually carried a stake when she came to this graveyard.

She closed her green eyes, idly fingering her strands of blond hair and listening vigilantly to the minutest sounds in the cemetery. With the ease of long practice, she sifted through every noise that reached her, discarding the normal and pay attention to the abnormal. She grimaced suddenly as she felt her hair fall into over her forehead. She really should tie her hair back when she was out patrolling and slaying.

Buffy jerked as she snapped her chestnut eyes open with a shuddery gasp. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shuddered. Where the hell did that come from? She grabbed a clump of her hair tightly in her fist, tugging it to remind herself of its reality. Black. Black hair not blond. She had black hair. She stumbled away from the grave. Why did she remember having blond hair? Did she have a rebellious, foolish moment and dye her hair when she was younger? She shook her head vehemently. That wasn't it. And green eyes? She knew she had never worn contacts.

She raised her hand to eyelevel and clenched it into a fist. Why did she know the best way to make a fist? The way that would protect her knuckles and would prevent her thumb from breaking?

"There's too many questions without answers," Buffy whispered gloomily to herself.

Her head whipped to the side as she heard a sound.

She should leave; she should allow the person coming to mourn in peace without her intrusive presence. But her feet were frozen to the ground, and she could not bring herself to leave. But although she wanted to see this person—whoever it was—she instinctively moved into a position more advantageous if she were forced to fight. She breathed deeply, ignoring for now her baseless intuition that she might be attacked.

She immediately relaxed as the newcomer came into view.

"Hello, Spike," she said to the peroxide-blonde she had seen the night before.

He started and turned to glare at her. "Bloody hell, woman!" he shrieked, in his sardonic British accent. "What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't give that crap," she snapped acidly. "You don't even have a heartbeat."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Right you are, luv," he conceded unhappily as he gazed at the tombstone.

"Would you like to talk about it?" she asked gently.

He shrugged. "No," he said shortly.

Buffy remained silent and waited, and soon, he tore his eyes from the stone and glared at her with a mixture of anger and pain. "Buffy was…" he started haltingly. "She…There was always…" He broke off, shaking his head and staring at his hands. He fell silent again, a small tear coursing down his face. It glimmered in the moonlight like a small gemstone. "I loved her," he murmured finally. "I still love her, truth to tell. Buffy. Now there was a bird who deserved everything good and ended up six feet under. Shoulda been me. I was the one who bloody screwed up. After all this time, she finally trusted me, and I failed. And Doc got to her sister."

He snarled, suddenly vicious, and his features morphed into a bumpy-faced, fangy-toothed version of himself. With a howl of rage, he slammed his fist into a nearby tree. The wood splintered, cutting into his hand and hurting him in a way only wood could. But he didn't seem to care. "My bloody fault!" he yelled into the night sky. "Mine!" he cried, his voice cracking with angst-ridden grief. His hand fell limply to his side, and his shoulders shook with tears as his face reverted to normal.

Buffy cautiously set her hand on his shoulder. "It was her choice," she whispered softly. "She wouldn't want to cause anyone guilt because of that choice. _Her _choice."

"You remind me of her," he said, through muffled tears. "Somethin' about you, luv."

"Thank you," Buffy said tremblingly.

He cleared his throat and turned around. "She never gave me a chance because I didn't have a soul. I once told her that she made me feel like a man, but it was more than that even. I wonder if she ever realized that she was my soul, she had given me a soul. Now she's gone, and it's still there, and luv, you have no idea how much a soul can hurt you when you've become so used to it not being there."

Her hand traveled up to press against his cheek, but he averted his head, embarrassed that he had gushed out something so personal to a stranger. She stared at him with tender eyes as she dropped her arm. "She probably realizes now," Buffy said kindly. Her lips curved in a slight smile as she again reached up to touch his face. She should be repelled by who he was, by what he was, but she only felt trust and emerging affection. He was different, and she saw that with opened eyes.

He leaned into her touch for the barest second before pulling away, shaking his head. "'Bye, luv," he grunted awkwardly. Then, hunching his shoulders, he strode away, reaching into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

Tilting her head thoughtfully, Buffy watched him go, the brightness of his hair like a beacon in the gloom. She glanced again at the headstone, drawn to that name, and then she knelt beside it. Her fingers wistfully traced the letters of the name. Her hand drifted down to the grass below the stone. She pressed her hand against the dirt. Buffy Anne Summers wasn't down there, she thought irrationally.

Shaking her head, she stood, wiped her hand, and dusted off her jeans. She turned to look at the direction Spike had headed. "Spike," she whispered to herself. He was a vampire, and that didn't surprise her for some reason. She knew him. She knew vampires. She wiggled her fingers, recalling the feeling of smooth wood in her hand. She smiled grimly. If she had to ignore her questions in order for these strange memories to come quicker, then that's what she'd do. Firmly repressing her uncertainties, she began walking in a familiar direction, her feet her guide.

To a shop.

To a special shop.

She carefully kept her mind clear of questions, letting her subconscious rise to the fore and overcome her conscious mind, and a few seconds later, she grinned as the name popped into her head.

To the Magic Box.

*****

The store should have been closed as it was the middle of the night, but it was still lit up like a lantern, the light inside glowing invitingly through the windows. Buffy's lips quirked into a half-grin. She had known they'd be gathered there still. She wasn't completely certain who these they were, but she knew that they were there.

The door jingled too loudly in the mournful hush of the shop as Buffy pushed the door open. The occupants turned to stare at her with disapproving frowns, and she paused in the entryway, feeling awkward. She made an uncomfortable noise and said, "Sorry."

"Excuse me, but the shop is closed now. You'll have to come back later," the man, the eldest in the grim group, said in a cultured English accent as he stood up.

"Hey," a familiar voice interrupted. "You're that bird a met earlier tonight," Spike identified her with a slightly confused expression. He stood up as well, stepping forward. "Yeah, the one at…Buffy's grave."

She nodded at him, her hair slipping across her forehead with the movement.

"Well," Giles said—for that was the older man's name, she was certain. "I suppose you could come in for awhile," he conceded as he settled back into his chair.

Buffy faintly smiled her thanks as she walked down the steps, the clunk of her shoes on the floor loud and irreverent. Spike offered her his chair, preferring instead to lounge against the counter.

As she sat down, silence fell again like a stifling blanket, suffocating and oppressive.

Willow—the redhead from before—cleared her throat and asked, "How did you know her?"

"Hmm?" Buffy said, jerked from her thoughts.

"Buffy. How did you know her?" she repeated, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

"She saved me from a big baddie when she ran away to L.A. We kept in touch after that," she said, the lie coming easily into her mind. Of course, Buffy had once run away. Of course, she would save innocent people from various demons that appeared.

Willow nodded, satisfied with her answer.

Silence fell again as words seemed to dry up from lack of meaning and value like a stream fading from shortage of rain. Something niggled at Buffy, and she glanced around the table, identifying each individual. A frown creased her forehead. Where was Dawn?

"I'm right here," a voice said, and Buffy blinked, not having realized she'd spoken aloud.

Dawn stopped short. "Who are you?" she said guardedly.

"She knew Buffy. Buffy saved her from a demon in L.A.," Anya explained in her matter-of-fact way.

Dawn gazed at her, hostile wariness shining in her eyes. "I saw you at the cemetery. You were standing across from me when they buried her. You gasped," she stated accusingly. "Why?"

She grappled for a believable explanation, lighting on one that seemed the closest to the truth. "She never told me her last name. I was surprised when I saw that it was Summers."

"Why?" Dawn repeated in the same unfriendly tone.

"Well, I also go by the name Buffy. That was one of the things that first got us talking. But her last name surprised me because mine is Summerwinds," she explained awkwardly.

The faces around the room arrayed themselves in various expressions of shock. Dawn gasped audibly, her eyes widening. "Buffy Summerwinds," she whispered incredulously.

Buffy nodded nervously, wondering if she should have continued as Elizabeth. She opened her mouth to speak, to say something to somehow reassure Dawn and alleviate the tension.

A tinkling of glass halted her as something flew through a window, clunking to the floor of the shop.

"What the—" someone said.

Then everything exploded around them.


	3. The Slayer

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, UPN (doesn't it feel weird to think that it's no longer the WB 

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, UPN (doesn't it feel weird to think that it's no longer the WB but UPN?), and all those other brilliant people who aren't me. So please don't sue me. You wouldn't get enough to make the lawyer's fee worthwhile.** 

Author's Notes: FINALLY! I felt I was going to go insane! I get back from traveling and I'm all ready to post new this new installment, but lo and behold, ff.net is not working! And then, proving to me that Murphy's Law is still in force today, the only computer in the house with internet connection decides to catch a virus and crash completely. So off it went to be repaired. Luckily, after a few days it's back at home, and I've pulled myself back from the brink of madness (bandanna, snarfblat, Tarzan, fuchsia) Well, sort of. Anyway, here it is. Enjoy reading! 

Rating: PG

******************* 

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, not touched, but are felt in the heart."

~ Helen Keller ~

Her Gift is Life

by: The Silver Princess

The concussion ripped through the Magic box, shattering glass and flinging merchandise, and the shards flew about as though winged, clear jagged splinters that quested for tender skin. Clouds of dust billowed upwards, casting an obscuring haze over the destruction like a veil drawn up over her eyes, surreally blurring everything.

Buffy's dark hair flapped in the wind of the dying blast as she coughed violently in the choking dust. Her cough was echoed, and she realized with a strange lack of surprise that her body had reacted before her mind and that Dawn was unhurt beneath the shelter of Buffy's body.

Buffy picked herself up, shaking out her clothes. Glass fell with a meek tinkle as though ashamed that it thought to hurt her, and then she helped the dazed younger girl to her feet. Dawn shook herself similarly, and her bemused expression cleared. The gazes of two sets of brown eyes collided. A wrinkle creased Buffy's forehead as they stared at each other. That protectiveness that she felt for Dawn…

"Dawn, listen to me," Buffy said urgently. Her voice was somehow stern and tender at the same time. She stared at Dawn intently. Those chestnut eyes were like glass, gleaming with tears. "Listen," Buffy repeated. Dawn had to listen. She had to know what her older sister was feeling. Not everyone had the chance to say goodbye before death. Buffy couldn't waste this. 

Pain at the coming separation tore at her heart. Funny how much it felt like grief when she was the one who was going to die. Dawn sobbed as though she had heard her thoughts of death. "I love you," Buffy said warmly. "I will always love you…"

A distraction broke through the strange memory, and it vanished like a scrap of a dream, leaving only a curious, unsettled disquiet. Buffy blinked rapidly to reorient herself.

"Bloody hell," came a familiar swearing voice.

"Oh dear," came another British voice. "It appears they feel they can take revenge now that Buffy is gone," he said calmly, his propensity for understatement obvious as always.

The dust swirled weakly around the figures, and then there was a flurry of movements: they fought.

Vampires poured in like an infestation of oversized rodents. Teeth were bared and eager with fangs gleaming through the last wisps of dust like steel. They were a blur of ridged foreheads and greedy jaws. The bloodlust ran through their dead veins so thick and hot that she imagined that she could smell the fetid stench emanating from them in putrid waves. 

She stood frozen as a miniature battle warred inside her. It only took a second for her to decide, for her to push aside her doubts. The conclusion had been inevitable.

"Dawn, stay out of the way and scream if any come close. Don't try any heroics." Her iron voice brooked no argument.

Then she moved into the fray.

She yanked a nearby vampire from an endangered Anya and sent him sprawling to the floor. He snarled bestially and flipped to his feet.

Buffy grinned at the simplicity of it and punched him in the jaw following through with another blow to his abdomen. He doubled over as she swung her leg to the back catching another in the chest. She spun in the same movement and kicked the first in the head. She stamped on a fallen chair and knelt to grab the splintered leg.

A vampire leapt onto her back, clumsy mouth scrambling for her neck. She swore mildly and tossed it over her shoulders, and then she lunged forward, staking the stunned demon before it could move.

Dust poofed beneath her hand, and she tightened her grip around her makeshift stake as she rolled forward and swiped with her leg. Another vampire toppled and died at her hand. Her world became filled with punches, kicks, and jabs. She flipped, she spun, she killed.

She watched events unfold behind her eyes as though she were watching a movie. She hardly needed to concentrate; the vampires had not expected real resistance now that Buffy Summers was gone. She felt so skillfully practiced that it was practically easy. Adrenaline thrummed through her supernaturally strong muscles like crackling electricity. Punch. Stake. Kick. Stake. Flip. Stake. Kick. Kick. Stake. 

The crowd of vampires thinned around her, and she paused to brush the hair out of her face.

An urgent scream cut through the air like knife blade.

Buffy whipped around in sudden panic, and her heart sprinted against her ribcage as though it were trying to break free from her chest.

"DAWN!" she yelled.

She moved so quickly she scarcely remembered somersaulting over the counter to where Dawn had taken cover.

Buffy tore the vampire from her sister with all the strength of her Slayer capabilities and her rage. The bumpy-faced woman thudded against the wall, her head smacking especially hard. Buffy's fist was ready when she raised her head, and the stake followed quickly.

"Are you okay, Dawnie?" she asked immediately, kneeling by the girl.

Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something, but something smashed over the crown of Buffy's head, and Buffy toppled into yawning blackness. She struggled to move her limbs and maintain consciousness.

"Gotcha," Xander said in satisfaction a moment later as a strangled cry suddenly cut off nearby. Greasy, filthy dust sprinkled over her cheeks and clung to her eyelashes. "That's last of them."

The darkness rushed into her ears and fixed its hooks into her mind, dragging her away, and then she was unconscious.

*****

Buffy was surrounded with white, a pale fuzziness as though she were encased in the world's largest cotton ball. She frowned and concentrated, and the image crystallized into focus. Columns and stairs wavered into being. It was a temple, she realized in confusion. What the hell was she doing in neo-Greek temple? She turned slowly, searching for something to break the white monotony, a clue as to why she was there.

"She wasn't supposed to do that," a female voice said behind her as though in the midst of an already begun conversation.

Buffy turned so quickly that hair flew into her eyes, tresses black and gold all at once.

"I know," the brother agreed in an irritated tone.

"She was supposed to let the Key fulfill its destiny," the sister continued. She frowned and shook her head, curls stiff and unmoving. "Why did she have to mess things up?" she added severely. The sister paced, and her blue and gold skin, veined like marble, shone in the pervasive light.

Buffy gaped and moved closer. They paid her no heed, did not react at all, as though she were a ghost. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and then watched the scene unfold from her strange vantage.

"She always was messing things up, doing unexpected, different things. That was her strength. She didn't play by the rules," the brother reminded her chidingly.

"What a mess," she muttered, ignoring his words.

"We'll simply Choose another," he said flippantly.

"No. That won't fix it. We need her. The coming challenges require _her_ to meet them. You said yourself that she was different." She stopped pacing and crossed her arms.

"I did not," he retorted indignantly. "I said that she _did _things—"

"You implied it," she interrupted dismissively. "Anyway," she said, waving her hand, "what shall we do about this problem?"

Silence fell inside the temple, a hush pregnant with thoughts and currents of power. The two beings gazed into emptiness, communing somehow with something. Buffy frowned in irritated confusion as the strangeness grew in the chamber.

Their eyes cleared, and as they looked at each other, they smiled in synchronization. "We'll Switch instead of Choose," they chorused together, their voices harmonizing into one.

Buffy was climbing stairs suddenly. She didn't recall ever starting to climb; she only knew that she had been climbing for a very long time. Her feet beat rhythm against the stone. She could see her goal ahead of her. It was a small rectangle of light carved into the wall, but it never grew larger though she was certain she was drawing closer. Sometimes the stairs spiraled or were steep. At other times, they went straight, and the steps were low. Windows blinked around her. Tiny suns blazed through tiny skies in the tiny worlds in each one. And still she climbed untiringly. Forever.

Sometimes voices would talk around her, static memories like tape recordings. Sometimes she would talk to herself, asking herself questions that she would only sometimes know the answer.

"What color is my hair?" she asked, and her voice was swallowed in the curve of the spiral steps.

"That depends," she would respond.

"And my eyes?"

"Same for them."

"Who am I?"

"You can't put a lifetime of identity into a sentence." Her voice echoed over the steps shaped like an escalator at a mall.

Then the voices would return to spark her mind into finding more answers.

_"Do you have a plan?" His voice was inquisitive concern masking heartfelt worry._

"I am the plan." Her voice was calm confidence, hard and fierce. 

They were fragments spinning around her head, whispering into her ears.

"Hi, I'm Willow."

The voice evoked an image of a young, longhaired redhead. High-school Willow. The first introduction.

"It's Summers blood."

The need to comfort Dawn for something she couldn't recall welled up inside her

"It's the Buffster," Xander's voice greeted her lightheartedly.

The thoughts came faster now, tumbling over each other in their flooding rush to be recognized.

"I will kill any of you who tries to hurt her."

"I love you, Buffy."

"One day, you're going to want a normal life that I can't give you."

Angel. She remembered Angel.

_"Hey, Bee!"_

And Faith.

_"I'm so sorry, Giles."_

_"Why can't I just have a normal life?"_

"He's Angelus now. Not Angel."

_"We gave the Key human form."_

They piled on faster and faster, and she began to sprint up the stairway, running full out, impatient to reach her destination. She had to know. Her subconscious was straining at its bonds like a caged creature, struggling to break free and finally solve the mysteries that plagued her. Images and emotions flickered through with the voices. Shards of memories falling together like puzzle pieces. Faster. Faster.

_"I'll get him Slayer blood."_

_"The Slayer is destined to be killed by the Master."_

_"Hey, Flower-getting lady…Mom…What are you doing? Mom? Mommy?"_

_"It's a Cladagh ring."_

_"I'm telling Mom you slayed in front of me."_

_"I'll take care of little sis for you."_

_"Death is your gift."_

And then the rectangle of light was there, bursting with brightness. She shaded her eyes and the blinding brilliance dimmed. It was a tiny door made of rounded logs of sanded wood, etched with darkness, and beyond was dry, lonely desert and a waiting warrioress in prehistoric skins.

As Buffy ducked and stepped through the doorway, her voice—her last words—chimed after her. _"Be brave. Live. For me."_

The sand was hot and gritty in her sandals, and hot wind tousled her hair. The dark-limbed woman stared at her, waiting. Buffy raised her chin in determination and met her gaze.

Biceps flexed, and Buffy blocked the imminent blow swiftly, and then she twisted her hips and jerked her knee up. They fought silently for several minutes, the only sound coming from the scuffle of feet on sand and the sound of clothing cushioning glancing blows. She gritted her teeth, summoning every dredge of strength, instinct, and knowledge to fight this opponent who was an equal match in every regard, whom she knew like a long-lost twin.

They spun away from each other, each panting faintly and positioning herself for the next clash. Buffy blinked in surprised realization. It was like staring at a strange mirror. Each strand of hair, each finger: exactly the same pose. She straightened up, and the warrioress opposite her moved at the same time in the same way.

The sun blazed overhead with sudden brightness that lit the pale-gold sand like fire.

Buffy knew her.

Buffy knew herself.

Then she answered her own question, this time speaking from certain knowledge, not subconscious instinct. "I am Buffy, the Slayer."

She opened her eyes into the waking world and stared into the face of the family she now remembered.

**Feedback, must have feedback. Slumps over keyboard, weak at lack of feedback.

I'll be wrapping this up soon, so I'll see you then!** 


	4. The Reunion

**DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, the WB, and various other people who aren't me. Drat.** 

Rating: PG

******************* 

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, not touched, but are felt in the heart."

~ Helen Keller ~

Her Gift is Life

by: The Silver Princess

"She's awake," Giles said in a voice tinged with relief and reluctance.

Her first instinct was to sit up and hug the nearest person, to cry out in joy, to cry out that she was HOME! But they would most likely consider her crazy, so she settled instead for blinking several times, trying to organize her thoughts and jumbled memories.

"Is she the new slayer? She fought like Buffy. There's a new one when one dies, isn't there? Xander, is she the new slayer?" Anya was pestering her boyfriend with her characteristic bluntness.

"Anya!" Dawn's broken voice protested. Buffy frowned. She thinks I'm replacing her sister.

"Anya," Xander hissed exasperatedly.

She remembered. Blue electricity had crackled through her body, snapping over metal jewelry and digging into her flesh like thrashing knives. Then there had been a coolness like water thrown over a fire, and the electricity had made entrancing azure patterns before her eyes before fading into serene darkness. She had floated along, her sorrows, like open wounds, closing and healing. The weariness that had settled over her had evaporated. She had been dead but strangely had felt more alive than ever. 

The bright beacon that had kindled in the darkness had beckoned tantalizingly. In the space of real-world heartbeat, her spirit had healed and then streamed into a welcoming vessel prepared by the Powers That Be. Then she had woken, disoriented in the hospital. Her brain had given her time to deal with the jarring changes.

Oh, but she was ready now!

Buffy sat up very suddenly, eliciting startled remarks from her friends.

"Well, that bloody answers your bloody question, doesn't it?" Spike bitterly sneered. "The bird's got the quick healing perk with the job too. Yup, bloody new slayer to replace the bloody dead one! Yup, those bloody Powers That Be certainly are bloody compassionate, aren't they, the bloody ponces." He paused in his acidic diatribe. "Bloody hell," he added for good measure. He threw her a look of sheer loathing before stalking off.

"Spike, wait!" she called. 

He gestured rudely with his hand.

Her friends were looking at her unhappily, some of Spike's emotions mirrored in their faces.

Buffy felt the first fizzing of anger beginning. It began in her fingertips under her nails and bubbled through her arm muscles. She was alive—and she wasn't going to let them think otherwise for one other minute. And she wanted to tell them all at once, and one infuriating vampire was not going to mess that up for her!

She had to stop him. "I kissed you once!" She clenched her jaw. There was a confession she hadn't wanted to make, but it was something only he and she would know. "After Glory kidnapped you. After your sexbot got fried. You kept Glory from finding out about Dawn."

He was ducking through the hole the vampires had ripped in the wall, but he froze suddenly, his shoulders tense, his posture like a startled animal. He turned very slowly. His face was filled hope and confusion, anger and joy, vulnerability and guardedness. He looked very young and very human at that moment.

Giles was looking at her with carefully maintained cool curiosity. Anya, Xander, and Willow were simply confused. Dawn was frowning, looking from Buffy to Spike and back. Tension laced the air; they didn't understand what she meant, but they did realize that there was a very important subtext in her words.

She looked around, her anger and surety faltering. How exactly to tell them, now that she definitely had their attention?

"Um, I'm Buffy, guys."

She winced at the triteness of her voice and the inadequacy of her words.

No one spoke.

Giles cleared his throat. "Yes, you mentioned your name earlier."

"Okay, so it's the memory proof deal, again." She could do this. Every memory glimmered like a just-polished jewel in her mind, new and familiar at the same time. She stood up, absently brushing dust from her clothing. "Kind of like with Faith, only this more permanent than a body-swap."

Her comment was like an electric shock running through the room. Spike moved closer, willing to listen.

"Did my sister write to you about that?" Dawn asked in a small defensive voice.

"She never wrote me because I'm her."

"She. You should say 'I'm she,'" Xander said challengingly.

Her eyes sparkled as she recalled a similar comment from the time Dracula visited Sunnydale. "'She who you most desire. Sorry, whom,'" she quoted softly with a hesitant smile.

"Buff?" he said, wrinkling his forehead as he searched her face for any sign of familiarity.

"Oh good lord, you can't believe this girl!" Giles protested.

Buffy turned to him, an impish look crossing over her features. She cleared her throat and delicately said, "You never did tell me what a stevedore is."

He paled and then blushed, taking off his glasses and polishing them furiously.

She glanced around uncertainly. They didn't believe her yet. She made a sudden frustrated noise, throwing her hands into the air. "What else do you guys need to convince you? Ask me something. Ask me anything! Do you want to know how we met? Willow, Xander, we met on the first day of sophomore year. And Giles. I went to the library and you pulled out that Vampyr book and I freaked. Remember? And Tara, well, I met you while I was in Faith's body. Ooo! and you were the one who figured out that it wasn't me in my body and you told Willow so she didn't flip out when she saw me. And Anya, um, you were a just a new girl at school until we found out that you were an ex-demon, which was when evil vampire Willow showed up. And—"

"Who am I?" Dawn said. She strode forward, her eyes shining with determination covering pain and worse, hope. "Tell me who I am!"

Buffy held herself very tightly, holding herself back from running to Dawn and holding her. "You're my sister," she murmured. "Admittedly, the family tree gets a bit cosmic for you, and I'm sure I'm really messing things up now," she shrugged, "but you're my sister however you look at it."

"It's Summers'—"

"Blood. It's the same as mine." Her words, an echo of a past reassurance, reverberated through the silent shop, ringing over crystal shards and thudding against broken statues. Funny, how she had forgotten how demolished the shop looked.

Dawn stared at her as Buffy waited, her stomach twisting nervously. Her sister still hadn't moved. Her eyes were staring into space, and her face was vulnerable, written with hurt. Her hands clenched at her sides.

"Dawnie? Are you okay?" Buffy asked hesitantly.

"Yuh-huh," she answered dazedly.

"Dawnie?" Buffy was afraid her heart would break if Dawn refused to believe her.

"Buffy!"

And then her sister was in her arms, hugging her tightly, laughing and crying.

And then they were all around her, hugging and laughing, jumping up and down in excitement, nearly falling and pulling the whole group down.

Through the tangled mass of arms and hair, Buffy caught a glimpse of Spike, standing alone, still so very frozen.

She beamed at him.

"See you 'round, Slayer," he said as he opened the door. Only she noticed his exit; only she noticed the restrained joy in his voice.

Everyone was talking at once, but Buffy remained silent, soaking in their love. She was home.

And then—"By the way, Buffy . . . when the hell did you kiss Spike!"

End


End file.
